


Aramis, no!

by atheartagentleman



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Coda, Comfort, Fluff, Multi, The Inseparables - Freeform, inseparablesfest, s01ep2 coda, super mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to Sleight of Hand.</p>
<p>It's a platoon of musketeers against a handful of zealous but undisciplined and poorly armed conspirators. The result of the fight -- not worthy of the name of 'battle' -- is inevitable. Porthos fights as he always does: with carefully channelled brute force and a dedication to thoroughness, but his heart isn't in it. He sees Aramis curled around a bomb and feels sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aramis, no!

**Author's Note:**

> I took a few liberties with the fight at the beginning, apologies for that (I'm still not totally sure ~who~ actually shouts 'Aramis, no!' but this version suited my purposes).
> 
> Betaed by [Carter](http://montparnaasse.tumblr.com) \-- many thanks for the assistance and the validation.

'Aramis, no!'

Athos' voice rings out and Porthos is cold with dread, but there's no time to turn and look, another would-be rebel is closing in fast and there are three civilians in the way of a clear shot. He dispatches the man with his sword then whirls to see what happened. Aramis is on the ground -- no! -- but then he moves, rallies himself, stands up, and he's holding -- is that a _bomb_? There's barely time to think about it before another man is rushing him. Porthos fires, misses, and runs him through instead.

It's a platoon of musketeers against a handful of zealous but undisciplined and poorly armed conspirators. The result of the fight -- not worthy of the name of 'battle' -- is inevitable. Porthos fights as he always does: with carefully channelled brute force and a dedication to thoroughness, but his heart isn't in it. He sees Aramis curled around a bomb and feels sick.

The first thing he does when it's clear the fight is over is look for Aramis, and he is nearly frantic when he cannot see him among the sea of faces. Then the crowd parts, revealing him, on the ground yet again, but in one piece and pressing the Queen’s necklace to his lips. Exasperation wars with relief in Porthos’ throat. Relief wins.

By the time Porthos reaches him, Aramis is standing, Anne of Austria has been bundled away, and Athos is at his side, jaw set and face too controlled.

'It's a dud,' Aramis declares, holding up the useless device to their inspection. It's cold comfort when all Porthos can think is _you didn't know that when you threw yourself onto it_. But there is no time to dwell, because if the bomb was never meant to detonate, then --

‘Then they were never meant to go off. They’re all duds,’ Athos shouts, throwing it aside. ‘He’s made us look in the wrong direction. The palace! He doesn’t want to kill the King, he wants to rob him! It’s a distraction, he’s at the palace!’

Anger and frustration are radiating off Athos as he speaks, already turning in the direction of the Louvre. The Captain nods them on their way, and they’re off again. Treville will see to it that the King and Queen are kept safe until they can return to their home.

_Vadim still has d'Artagnan, too._

The insignia on their shoulders sees them through the palace gates without obstruction, and they plunge into the chaos. Everywhere, men are shouting through clouds of dust, but they spot Vadim and give chase, running through the tunnels under the palace by torchlight.

‘Surrender or die!’ Athos calls. ‘It’s over, Vadim.’

It’s hard to argue with that statement, not when Athos has a gun levelled at the trickster-thief’s head, and Aramis and Porthos stand behind him, covering him, but Vadim does not appear to know when he’s beaten.

‘Not quite,’ he says.

‘Where’s d’Artagnan? Is he dead?’

Vadim does not answer, but instead slowly moves to block his ears with his fingers.

‘Bang,’ he whispers.

Before Porthos can react, Athos has thrown them both to the wall with a shout, his words lost to the din as an explosion rocks the tunnel. Porthos confusedly prays d’Artagnan was nowhere near that and that Aramis moved in time, then something hits his head and the world goes dark.

He has no idea how much time has passed -- though the firelight suggests it can’t have been long -- when he coughs his way back to consciousness. Beside him, Athos is already pulling himself to his feet using the wall for support, as Aramis hovers, looking relieved and more than a little dusty. There is no time to do more than take stock of their injuries (mercifully slight): Vadim's men block the tunnel, unaware or perhaps uncaring that their seditious cause was a lie. It is time they can ill afford. They fight as one, for all they are a little battered, with well-worn coordination, knowing each other by heart even in the flickering light and the dirt.

Athos had once told them, when he was feeling expansive in the small hours one morning, of the old Spartans, whose army was the most feared of the ancient world. How it was custom for the older men to take younger lovers from among the ranks, the idea being that their bond would make each fight harder in order to impress the other. Aramis had laughed and asked whether Athos was trying to impress them. Porthos understands why the Spartans thought that way -- he always fights harder when _they_ are near, or in danger -- but two aspects of that ancient army have always puzzled him. First, how they continued each day of each war without feeling sick with fear, and second, how they could ever bear to give each other up once the younger reached an age to take a yet younger lover of his own.

His thoughts flash along this familiar path as he and Athos whirl, back to back, taking down a further pair of Vadim's men. The last of them fall like sacks, leaving the passage free for them to rush on.

They find d’Artagnan at the end of it, bloodied but upright and sword in hand, and Porthos’ heart swells with pride.

‘So you are alive,’ Athos says.

There’s nothing left to do but round up Vadim, tracking him like a wounded animal up to the light and the new air by the river. He trails gold and blood in equal measure on the ground. It’s not a fight. It’s four men, swords drawn, descending upon a dying fugitive. There is no joy in it, only the grim satisfaction of a job done. He dies there on the mud under the seagulls, staring up at the sky, and Porthos thinks at least he was not underground.

****

By silent accord, they all repair to Aramis' lodgings after they have talked to the Captain, toasted their victory, and returned d'Artagnan to his officious landlord and the lovely Constance. Aramis himself is in excellent spirits -- he has, after all, saved the life of the Queen today, _again_ \-- but Athos is too quiet, even by his own standards. Porthos watches him watch Aramis,  and says nothing. Aramis is midway through kindling a fire in the grate when the onesidedness of his chatter clearly becomes too much for him. His shoulders sag in a sigh, and his voice is abruptly weary.

'Alright,' he says, rising and turning to face them both head-on.

_He is always so brave_ , Porthos thinks, somewhat nonsensically, and it's what has him crossing the room, until there is no space anymore between them and he can cradle Aramis' face in his hands, feel the warmth of those cheeks against his palms.

'You threw yourself onto a bomb today,' he says. The words come out hoarser than intended.

'It was not built to go off,' Aramis soothes, but does not pull away.

'You didn't know that!'

Aramis sighs. 'I know. If it’s any consolation, I had it under control, and you were never supposed to see that.’

‘It’s not,’ Athos says shortly from somewhere behind Porthos. There is the faint but distinct sound of a cork pulled out of a bottle.

‘I know,’ Aramis says again, sounding contrite. ‘It had to be done though.’

Porthos has no answer to that, because every word is true and every man among them would have done the same, but Athos spares him having to think of something by choosing that moment to join them. He presses a cup of wine into Aramis' hands and a fierce kiss to his mouth.

'Allow us our moments of irrationality, please, and let us be afraid for you,' he pleads.

Aramis crumbles, accepting the wine and kissing Athos in turn.

'I am sorry,' he says, addressing them both. 'that you had to see that and be afraid.’

They do not fuss about ordinary dangers -- none of them could bear the constant clucking, nor do they feel inclined to make mountains out of the soldiering life. They are all too capable to do each other that discourtesy. Conversely, they agreed, once it became apparent how deep their affection for each other ran, that they should all be permitted to fuss over extraordinary dangers, on those days when death stares them straight in the face before passing them by. Aramis had not so much suggested it as declared his intent to fuss, and allowed Porthos and Athos to decide what to do with the attention.

Now, when he himself is the object of that attention, Aramis submits to it with good grace. He sips his wine, thanking Athos for it with a smile, and leans his face into Porthos' palm. It is no accident that the motion presses the pulse-point at Aramis' throat into the one in Porthos' wrist. Their heart-beats do not match, and their off-kilter rhythm is the best feeling in the world.

The lingering tendrils of dread melt away with the minutes.

‘How are your heads?’ Aramis asks after a while.

‘How do you mean?’ Athos says, deliberately obtuse. It will do him no good.

‘Do not think it escaped my notice that you both made close acquaintance with a wall today. You were out cold.’

‘My head is fine.’

Aramis sniffs and bestows an unconvinced stare on Athos. They face off. Athos backs down. With only token grumbling, he bows his head to Aramis’ inspection, allows himself to be examined and then petted once the examination is over. They’re lovely to watch like this, intent on each other, Athos’ eyes closed in a rare moment of peace.

If Aramis has been taking every opportunity to touch Athos since he was chained before a firing squad, Porthos is good enough not to mention it. Besides, he will not make a hypocrite of himself.

‘And you?’ Aramis turns to Porthos, his hand still in Athos’ hair.

‘My skull’s plenty thick,’ he reassures.

Aramis frowns, but does not push his luck. They are teetering on the verge of irredeemable sentimentality already. He moves instead to pluck the bottle of wine from the dresser where Athos left it and refills their cups.

‘A toast,’ he says, raising his own, ‘to necessary risks, unnecessary ones, and tomorrows in which to keep taking them.’

‘Together,’ Porthos adds, though it does not need saying.

‘As ever.’

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi sometime on [tumblr](http://at-heart-a-gentleman.tumblr.com) it will probably make my day.


End file.
